“What do you think, Chief Councilman?” Bolt asked. “What was your idea?”
All heads turned to Uribe, who sat up stiffly again.
“I think we can pull a little bit of everything and use it in a discussion with Commander Briar. He’ll be back tomorrow morning, and I think we need to hash this all out immediately. As for my idea . . . it’s a bit unethical, perhaps, but it may be necessary, as I don’t think even the threat of imprisonment will be enough to nudge him in the right direction. I want to float the idea of telling him that Sonya personally killed Gerald.”
The chambers fell silent again, many faces scrunching while other bodies squirmed in their seats.
“Is that legal?” Bolt asked.
“Like I said, it’s unethical. But from what I’ve gathered, not illegal. Investigation reports change quite a bit as information is gathered. I’ve already spoken with the head of this particular investigation, and they have assured me the report can state this simple fact for the time being. Keep in mind, there was a lot of gunfire during this attack, and it hasn’t yet been determined for sure who shot Gerald. It’s presented us this unique opportunity with a small window of time to push it through as truth.”
“I don’t know, this sounds like something that can come back and haunt us,” Penny said, shifting in her seat.
“All paperwork will suggest that we’re making a decision based on the information we have at this moment. We have at least three days before the investigative team updates any of their notes. Do we want to pursue this option?”
The chambers remained silent for a few more seconds while each Councilor fidgeted with their writing utensils and gazed around like they were looking at the stars. No one opposed, yet no one voiced support, either. Everyone understood the gravity of the current predicament the Road Runners were now under, and they needed an aggressive, all-hands-on-deck approach if they wanted any hope of coming out of this alive.
“Let’s do it,” Councilwoman Dawson finally said. “All of it. The lie, the threat, the law. Throw it all at him and see what happens.”
Uribe looked around to the others, all of them nodding in agreement, but not speaking. “You know we are off the record. We can discuss this openly. No need to fear any backlash. I’m not turning on the microphone until we’re ready to formally cast a vote. Now, with that said, does anyone have an objection? We need to all be on the same page.”
Councilman Bolt spoke first. “I think if we use all of the options discussed, we’ll get the action we need. What’s important to remember is that this is bigger than all of us. Whatever happens in the next six months is going to forever shape the future of our organization. We have arrived to the critical swinging point of our history. We either go all-in with our decision, or we start counting down our final days. Does anyone feel otherwise? I know we’ve all studied the past and future quite extensively.”
“This feels wrong, and I suppose it always will,” Councilwoman Penny said, shaking her head. “But if our survival depends on it, will anyone really care? We don’t have two years to wait for a new commander who might be willing to agree to this. We can’t even say where Sonya will be in two years, let alone right now. We can approve this decision today, get Commander Briar on board, and it still won’t mean anything until we can actually find Sonya. She has Juice again and will stay on the run. I doubt she tries to settle in any one location for too long.”
“So are you saying you approve?” Uribe asked, raising his eyebrows.
“I don’t agree with it, but this is bigger than me—bigger than all of us. So I will vote yes for the greater good.”
“Councilwoman Penny raises a good point. This entire plan rests in the hands of those looking for Sonya. We’ll have to authorize two missions, one being the assassination of Sonya Griffiths, but first, an all-out manhunt for her. It’s a desperate move, but one that’s necessary.”
“Will it require cooperation from any other commanders?” Bolt asked.
“No. We have our own Road Runners who live on other continents. I doubt any other commander will let us use their local members, even for a simple mission like tracking a person down. Does anyone else have anything to add, or shall we vote?”
Uribe scanned the table and waited a full minute until reaching forward and flicking on a switch next to his microphone protruding from the table.
“This is Chief Councilman Uribe, notating the start of our daily session within the chambers in Denver, Colorado. Today we are calling to vote an authorization to assassinate Sonya Griffiths. Reports show that she is responsible for the death of Lieutenant Commander Gerald Holmes. There are added benefits tied to her demise, including the opportunity to successfully end the life of Christopher Speidel. In addition, we will vote on a mission authorization to deploy every available resource toward finding Ms. Griffiths. We will begin by casting our votes anonymously. I will count and Councilwoman Barns will confirm. Councilors, please cast your votes for the authorization to assassinate Sonya Griffiths.”
Each member scribbled their vote on a piece of paper that was then folded and pushed to the center of the table. Uribe had a sliver of doubt that an opposition vote would make its way into the pile. It wasn’t like the Council to remain silent during a discussion, but this was a gray area that perhaps no one wanted the risk of their spoken words being recorded. They didn’t need a unanimous decision to pass the authorization, but it would certainly look better to the public knowing their Council was in complete agreement about the matter.
Uribe collected the slips of paper once everyone was done, and quickly counted, relieved. “For the authorization of a mission to assassinate Sonya Griffiths, the Council has voted in favor, six votes to zero.”
“Confirmed,” Councilwoman Barns quickly said as she finished counting the slips that Uribe passed along to her.
“Councilors, please cast your votes for the authorization of deployment of all available North American Road Runners to find Sonya Griffiths.”
They repeated the process, this time much quicker.
“For the authorization of deployment of all available Road Runners to locate Sonya Griffiths, the Council has voted in favor, six votes to zero.”
“Confirmed.”
“That settles our voting measures for the day. For the record, the authorization has passed for these two essential missions, however we still need to coordinate with Commander Briar the finer details on how this will be carried out. We will schedule a meeting with the commander for tomorrow morning, but it will be off the record, considering the confidential nature of such discussion. We will provide as many updates as possible. This concludes our morning session, we will meet back this afternoon to wrap up some smaller matters. The Council is now in recess.”
Uribe flicked the microphone off and leaned back in his chair, nodding quietly to himself. It was easily the most unethical decision he had ever made during his tenure as a Councilor, but only the future would tell if it was the right call, and ultimately decide his own legacy.
32
Chapter 32
The next morning called for the meeting between Martin and the Council. He received a calendar invite to his phone while still in future Chicago, and quickly accepted it, dismissing it as nothing but a likely check-in between the two parties. He had no idea the Council was waiting to flip his world even more than it already had been.
Martin caught his return flight home to Denver after jumping back to 2020, his heart heavy after two days of mourning with those closest to Gerald. He had given Gerald’s potential replacement no thought, not wanting to rush into a decision while teetering on the brink of depression. Perhaps that’s what the Council wanted to help him with.
When he arrived in Denver, gray clouds dumped rain on the city, further continuing the melancholy that seemed to linger above the entire organization. Martin paid no attention, aside from watching streaks of rain drizzle along the car window as they rode back to the downtown office.
&nb
sp; One month as Commander, he thought as they rode in silence, the car filled with its driver and three security guards. Thousands of Road Runners and civilians dead, my number two wiped off the planet, and Sonya on the run again. This has to be the biggest failure of a commandership in the history of the organization, and it’s only taken a month.
Being away from Denver for the funeral provided Martin plenty of time to think, and he couldn’t force himself to shake off the urge of resigning from his position, and banishing himself to one of the private islands. If the pope was allowed to resign, then why not Martin? Was that something that had even been done in the past? What did that process look like, and how furious would everyone be if they needed to run a whole other election so soon?
The existence of the Road Runners—and time travel, in general—had pulled Martin out of the constant sorrow he lived in, revitalizing his life and delivering a new purpose. This had gradually snowballed into his current leadership position with the organization, leading him to this specific point in life right back where he had started: wishing for death to put an end to the madness.
He still longed for a world where Chris Speidel no longer existed, but the constant flow of negativity had extinguished any remaining fire within his soul to pursue it. Perhaps he’d go on a suicide mission and kill Chris himself, leaving the world with a great gift while ending his miserable existence once and for all.
The thought brought the first grin to his lips in a couple of days, just as the car parked in front of the office, prompting two of the guards to jump out of the car and head into the building first. The head of security called for a full revamp of their policies, implementing that two guards must walk ahead of the commander at all times when entering a new building, even the main headquarters. After Strike’s disappearance and death, they had made a mandatory rule that the commander must always have at least two guards when stepping outside of the office. They upgraded the ruling to now include four guards, one of which must also be the driver for any trips across town.
Martin let himself out of the car, insisting to his team that he didn’t need the door opened for him like he was the Queen of England. He followed his guards into the marketing office and into the basement where the bullpen remained silent since Gerald’s untimely death.
Martin passed through with his head down, not in the mood for the usual small talk that accompanied his morning strolls through the office. He had less than an hour until his meeting with the Council, and planned to pass the time in his office, with the lights off. He surely had a pile of work, but lacked any energy to force his way through it. Besides, his main priority was to find a new number two, especially if he had plans of entering a life-threatening mission.
He closed the office door behind him and sat behind his desk, leaving his computer off and dropping his head on crossed arms. The silence was dizzying, and he felt all the eyes of the former commanders watching him from the wall in their 3x5 frames, judging him, mocking him, laughing at him.
You’ll never hang on this wall with us! their collective voices shouted at him. You disgraceful piece of shit! Are you sure you don’t secretly work for the Revolution? Traitor!
Martin’s hands trembled with rage, prompting him to swipe the stapler that rested on the edge of his desk, and hurl it across the room. It crashed into the portrait of Commander Amanda Rodriguez, who led the organization from 1989-1990, cracking the glass before it fell from the wall and clattered to the floor, sending shards across the carpet.
“Fuck!” he barked, slamming a fist on to the desk. “Pull it together, Martin. Everything will work out—it always has.”
Worked out, huh? Like your ex-wife killing your only child and tossing her body in the lake like a dead fish? Like your mother being killed all because of your decision to enter this life? Like all the innocent Road Runners who were minding their business that day in the hotel? Or like Sonya lying to you and running away? How is that happily-ever-after working out?
“Nothing has ever worked out,” he said to assure himself. “We’re gonna take things one week at a time. If one more bad thing happens this week, I’m leaving in the middle of the night. I’ll rip my tracking device out and spend the rest of my life hiding from the bullshit. If I can actually go a week without someone in the organization dying, then I’ll reconsider.” As Martin spoke, he directed his words to the portrait of Commander Strike mounted next to his enlarged photo. She was the only familiar face on that wall, and somehow the only source of comfort in his luxurious office.
Nearly every day he had spent a moment wondering what life would be like had she never been kidnapped. He definitely wouldn’t be the commander, but what would his role look like with the Road Runners? What happened after his term ended? All of these commanders hung on the wall, but he had never once heard about their recent activity. The unknowing churned his stomach, even though he still had twenty-three months left of his term.
Unless I make a run for freedom.
Martin shook his head, having enough of the negative thoughts swirling around, and checked the clock to see that his hour had quickly passed. He stood, slightly off-balance as he exited his office and started down the long hallway to the conference room that served as the Council’s chambers. His feet shuffled along the floor, moving at a pace fast enough to keep anyone from striking up a conversation. A couple of eyes looked up at him, but no one really paid him any attention in the quiet bullpen.
Martin grew more tired with each passing second, and not in the sense of requiring sleep. He had slept on the jet ride to and from Chicago, and actually managed seven hours of sleep each night while in the Windy City. By all considerations, he was well-rested. It was a day off he needed. The constant bustle of his job crept up his body, inching toward his throat where it would suffocate and squeeze the life out of him. It surely didn’t help having so much blood on his hands in a short matter of time. If he could just take one day to spend at his own house and do nothing but watch TV on the couch, he might feel better about life. But a day off was a long time away, especially with nobody to help run the organization in his absence.
Perhaps he could float the idea by the Council and see what they thought. He knocked on the door before pushing it open to find all of the Councilors in their seats around the oval table, Uribe at the head and waving an arm for Martin to join them. They had set up a chair next to Uribe, but a foot back from the table. Touching the table was an old tradition that could only be done by active Council members.
“Good morning, Commander,” Uribe said as Martin made his way to the seat.
“Good morning, all.” He offered a quick nod before sitting down and crossing his hands on his lap. “How is everyone doing?”
Uribe bobbed his head from side to side. “We’re doing okay. After a couple of days off we got back to work yesterday. It’s a dark time for us all, but we have plenty to do to shape our future.”
“I see. Is that what this meeting is about?”
“Yes, Commander. We voted on a couple of measures yesterday and would like to discuss them with you. I must warn you—you may not like what we have to say.”
Martin squirmed in his seat and readjusted his posture by sitting more upright and crossing his arms over his chest. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
“Let me start by saying that our hands are tied. Since the attacks in Idaho, I’ve now received north of 5,000 emails from our members as of this morning. For context, we normally receive emails on a regular basis and see spikes after particular tragedies. During calm times, maybe ten emails a day. After Bill’s death, we received 300 over the week. After Julian’s death and revelation of his dirty deeds, we received maybe 500. After Strike’s death, I read through 1,000 emails. Even the Vegas attack turned up 2,000 messages. But so far, we’re at 5,000 in three days. There’s essentially a new email every single minute.”
“I didn’t realize the membership could contact the Council. What are people saying?” Martin asked, leaning forward
as he had no idea what to expect.
“Normally they make requests for new policies, and if we see enough of a general theme across the emails—say at least half of them calling for the same thing—then we’ll discuss here in the chambers and decide how to move forward. Some matters require formal votes and signatures from the membership.”
“Can you please tell me what’s going on?” Martin asked in the most polite voice he could manage.
“Yes. The emails have all been calls for your removal. I suspect the membership has the votes needed for a recall. We don’t want that. And honestly, they don’t really want that, either. Underlying each ask for a recall is a desire to end the war. Our people have reached their wit’s end—they don’t care what it takes, just make it happen. They feel a new leader will be able to get the job done, perhaps someone more experienced. We took the liberty to discuss our options and voted to assassinate Sonya Griffiths.”
Uribe paused and waited for a reaction from Martin, but his eyes remained fixated into the distance, blank and lifeless.
“We also approved an order to utilize all resources in finding her. We currently have no idea what year or location she may be in, but we have enough people to find her within the next month. Both measures were passed unanimously, and will now move to your desk for administration and implementation. We understand that Gerald would have been your go-to in this situation, but it’s imperative you at least find someone with a strong strategic background to carry this out and provide some guidance.”
“So this is it?” Martin asked, nearly mumbling. “The decision has been made for me.”
He spoke more to himself than the Council, dropping his gaze to his fidgeting fingers in his lap.
Zero Hour (Wealth of Time Series, Book 5) Page 20
